Quake_Counting to Sleep_Compromised_When is Your Destination?
Catalog Guide:
Quake
I ventured out at eleven forty five, just fifteen minutes before the store closed. The store was nearly empty, with an announcement asking shoppers to bring final purchases. I had run to the back where the freezer section stores frozen treats, grabbed a large tub of Leah’s favorite, Mint Chocolate Chip, with another tub of Coffee Blast just for safe measure.Iran along the aisles to grab the extra hot chips she loved as the speakers announced the store was closed and any remaining customers should head to the registers immediately. This was when the storm began out of nowhere. The earth was sha...
Counting to Sleep
Seventy two. Forty Eight. Nine. When discussing space travel, A lot of numbers get thrown around. Seventy Two percent, for example, is the statistical likelihood of waking up from stasis. Forty Eight is the number of vaccinations and preparatory formulas injected into a person’s bloodstream before stasis. Nine is the number of life support systems required to maintain stasis during the 159,140 earth-day journey to a place where the seeds of humanity were to be replanted. By the time Jerod began the reanimation cycle in the new world, everyone he had ever known would have been dead for around ...
Compromised
It mocked me. Every morning it mocked me. The Admirality’s dreadnought, the Peacemaker (Aptly named but for all the wrong reasons) still hung over Neptuna’s atmosphere, it’s tiers of turrets barreled down on the scattered colonies, all in the name of protection. Regional command promised us that we would’ve taken it down within a week. That was a month ago. I forced myself to drink another gulp of what apparently passed for coffee (stars, how I missed real coffee) here on Port III, trying to play the part of station-side immigrant. It didn’t matter that I’d spent four weeks practically m...
When is Your Destination?
My great uncle walked this earth for ninety-five years. Well … he walked this earth for a couple of years. He sat around for the rest. And that’s my point exactly.That’s how we remember him, my siblings and I. If he’d known we’d remember him like that, maybe he’d have done things a little differently. It seems to me that no matter where you go when you clock off, memories are what you leave behind. They’re your physical legacy—your this-world immortality. They’re what linger, for better or worse—for walking or sitting, in my great uncle’s case.I feel a weightiness in my chest when I think abo...